Sauced Alternate Ending
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Alternate ending to the original Sauced.


Sauced - alternate ending

by firechild

Rating: K+

Warning: spanking...er...uh...

Disclaimer: They're not mine, and I am not paying the cleaning bill.

A/N: Yes, this is going to be somewhat ooc, and yes, this is silly, and yes, I'm writing a Thanksgiving story this late. Yes, this is an alternate ending, and yes, it is almost as long as the story itself. And yes, this was inspired partially by and written for Chrisie and her cadre.

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After a few seconds of silence at the end of his "lecture," Dean crumbled into laughter, lightly tinged with embarrassment, and gently shoved his brother. "Get off me, you big wuss." Sam snorted as he crawled forward onto the bed, then turned so that he was half-laying, half-sitting, supporting himself on his elbows. He and Dean made eye contact, blushing a little again at the play they had chosen, and then Dean snorted into laughter again, Sam knowing that Dean needed this, had needed this for a long time, and if it took a little embarrassment and a submission to his third-most-hated position to do it, well, that was okay by him.

Dean, for his part, got up and hunted down some tissue, bringing back a handful to finish cleaning the cranberry sauce off of his face as he sat on the bed. His first thought, as he looked at the sauce on the tissue, was how closely it resembled blood; but this automatic grim thought was shoved to the side by the drunken buzz of laughter that he'd never found in any bottle. It occured to him then that he didn't particularly feel like going out and finding a bottle tonight, either. He'd been doing a lot of that, maybe too much, lately, and in this moment of endorphic haze that was eerily turning out to be a moment of clarity, he realized that he didn't want to be covered in that kind of sauce. Dean genuinely was not an alcoholic--yet--but he sure hadn't been doing his liver any favors since... since his world had come apart at the seems for a third time. He understood the predisposition, vaguely remembered a time over twenty years ago when his father, once again half-sauced on Sam Adams and disgusted with himself for letting it become a habit, warned his firstborn about the easy trap of alcohol and admonished him to avoid that particular siren song when the going got tough, more clearly recalled that over the next few weeks his father had slowly sobered up and had never again seemed to forsake better judgment about his limits with the drink. Dean recognized these things within himself, thought that the lack of fear and need were positive signs, and decided that he would pull back from the siren's lure, now, before he could find himself slurring a warning to Sam or, worse, wishing he'd been clearheaded enough to warn Sam about some more immediate danger.

Sam must have picked up on Dean's increasingly depressed mood, because he tugged on the cuff of his brother's t-shirt as he had when he was very small, and when Dean looked at him, Sam poked out his bottom lip and said "P-p-pweeze fohgive me!" in his very best toddler voice. Dean blinked at him for a moment, then dissolved into snickers and then real laughter again. He couldn't remember when he'd laughed so much in such a short time, but even though his overly full stomach was beginning to hurt, it felt good. No sooner had he thought it then his mood found the edge again and began to teeter as another thought hit him.

Dean stopped laughing and cleared his throat a couple of times; then, hesitantly, his voice hoarse, he surprised Sam with his vulnerability. "Dude, do you... do think we're, like, totally" he cleared his throat again "totally rotten to be all, you know, messing around and... and laughing like this, when..." He trailed off.

Sam blinked a couple of times, then pushed himself up to sit. "No way, man," he said gently, without a trace of condescension, "I think you're totally right to laugh. This is a holiday, Dean--it's Dad's holiday; Dad loved Thanksgiving, and he loved you. He'd never want you to be miserable, not today of all days, and especially not because of him. Remember, I was always the only rotten thing about Thanksgiving." Sam said it softly, matter-of-fact. "Listen, Dad wouldn't want you to feel bad about feeling good; he'd want you to be happy--he'd want you to be you, today and every other day." Sam gave his brother what was almost a gentle smile. "Dean, you know that you were always the best thing in Dad's life; he was always at his best when he knew that you were okay. That's the one thing I know I inherited from him."

Dean was stunned... and touched. It was on the tip of his tongue, the reflex to say, "I'm always okay," but he swallowed it, not wanting to spoil the moment with an outright lie. Sam might be much more liberated about expressing his feelings, but that didn't make the kid an actual girl, regardless of Dean's teasing; Sam hadn't had to say any of this, do any of this, so for once Dean wouldn't cheapen it.

He did, however, seriously need to break the tension that had settled there, non-hostile but still uncomfortable. "Be me, huh? I think I can manage that." With that and a twinkle in his eye, Dean launched himself at his brother, tackling the younger man and whapping him repeatedly with one of the pillows.

Before they knew it, they were tussling again, rolling off the bed, rolling and writhing until they'd come hazardously close to the entertainment area. Sam was just getting past the wave of guilt that he'd been drowning in for two days. He hadn't managed a laugh yet, but he was one step closer to something like peace again. Dean didn't seem to be holding things against him--well, other than his knuckles, his fingertips, and the floor as they rolled, wresting, tickling, yelping, and making a general mess of the mess in the room, bits of stray food from their war sticking to their clothing and hair. Sam was just about to get the upper hand, freeing one of his own and aiming for one of Dean's ticklish spots.

"Enough!"

Dean froze, squeezing his eyes closed, sure that his medication had worn off and that he'd overdone it, and now he was paying for it with delusions.

"Did you not hear me? I said ENOUGH! Now get your sorry tails up off of that floor before I make them even sorrier!"

Dean rolled off of his brother, blinking up at John with befuddled eyes, unsure how to react to this particular delusion, which didn't seem to be going away. "What the..."

John narrowed his eyes at his older son, and Dean found himself scrambling to his feet. Some little part of him thought it was strange that Sam hadn't commented on Dean's abrupt shift in position, but he couldn't look down to ask him about it--his eyes were fixed on his father's, and he couldn't tear them away, couldn't do anything now but obey.

Sam hadn't reacted to Dean's movements because he thought that he was the one hallucinating. He'd caught a glimpse of John when Dean had moved off of him, and found that he couldn't face his father. The feeling was so strong that he'd almost say it was physical, if that didn't sound so silly; to shake off the feeling and the illusion, he turned himself over onto his hands and knees, trying to regain his equilibrium. It took him a minute to get steady enough to pull himself to his feet, and when he stood and turned, he found Dean sitting with John on Dean's bed, the two of them talking in low voices, Dean trying to reassure himself that this was really happening. He fought down a twinge of jealousy, reminding himself that this was their holiday, John's and Dean's, and that this wasn't about him. He took a seat on his bed, settling back to watch the silent football game with one eye and his family with the other.

Dean opened his mouth to ask how John could be there, but before he could get a word out, John held up a hand, glanced over at Sam to include him momentarily, and said, "The how isn't important; I'm here, that's all you need to know." Neither of the boys would ever really be able to explain what happened at that moment, but they both accepted John's assertion, finding the desire to ask for details slip away. It suddenly just seemed that none of the questions they would normally ask mattered. They'd never thought that just seeing John again would have such a profound effect on their natures.

When Dean started to cough again, John insisted that he lay back on his pillows while they conversed; noticing that Sam was listening in, John directed his younger son to clean the room, saying that Dean needed his rest. Still unable to meet his father's eyes, Sam nodded and got up to obey.

It took him most of the afternoon to undo the effects of a ten-minute food fight; he had to drive to the drug store to get supplies and to the motel office to borrow a vacuum cleaner, which got him an amusingly incredulous look from a desk manager whose own housekeeping staff barely bothered with cleaning most of the time. The food had started to dry, adhering to the floor and walls and other surfaces. The work made it harder to overhear what was going on between his father and brother, but it also gave him a way to stave off his conflicting feelings. When he had gotten all that he could see, his father pointed out some additional cleaning chores for Sam to do; when those were done and the room met with John's satisfaction, he ordered Sam to get himself cleaned up.

Reminding himself again that none of this day was about him, Sam spent almost an hour in a hot shower, breathing in the last vestiges of Dean's shower tab and hoping that the worst of his brother's cold was behind them. When he did finally turn off the water, he could hear Dean coughing, and Sam winced sympathetically. His only comfort was that their father was by Dean's side and would be taking the best care of his firstborn. To give them as much time alone together as he could, Sam dressed very slowly, wiped down the steam-coated mirrors and soaked up the puddle on the floor where he'd stepped out of the tub, and then sat down on the lid of the toilet, wondering what his father and brother were talking about a few feet and a whole world away. He was a little ashamed that he had to work so hard not to be jealous, but he kept telling himself that Dean needed John more and that John had really only ever needed Dean, and that Sam should just grow up and deal.

Sam was a little surprised, and more ashamed, that he'd gone through most of the day without thinking of Jess; he understood that those who had lost loved ones had to move on, but he wondered if his not aching for her every single minute after only a little over a year meant that he hadn't loved her as much as he should. He felt his nose begin to burn and his eyes mist, and he wondered briefly if his father had ever come to a moment like this after losing Mary; Sam doubted it, but he knew he'd never know for sure because he couldn't even wrap his brain around the idea of asking. It was too personal, none of his business, and he couldn't stand for John to know that he'd obviously failed in love as he'd failed in most everything else that ever really seemed to matter. Besides, he figured that if not for him, John missing Mary wouldn't be an issue.

A knock at the bathroom door pulled him from his thoughts, and Sam quickly reined in his feelings, trying to dry his eyes and neutralize his expression before he opened the door. Dean stood on the other side, mumbling hoarsely about girls and tying up the bathroom, and Sam traded places with his brother, giving Dean's pale face and red nose a worried look.

Dean closed the door, leaving Sam alone with John. John, for his part, didn't even glance at Sam, his gaze fixed with mild interest on the TV, where he'd found a James Bond marathon on channel 32. Sam waited for a minute, for an acknowlegement, an order, a scolding, something, and when nothing came, he sighed softly and sat down on his bed, wondering if he should say something. He thought he should probably apologize for the things that he'd said, for the way he'd behaved the last time he'd seen his father, but he didn't think he could control his emotions, and the last thing he wanted to do was to break down like a weakling in front of this man. In the end, he figured that silence was probably the better part of everything right now, as there was nothing he could say that would relieve the emptiness between them.

Sam hadn't noticed that Dean had taken anything into the bathroom, but evidently he had because Sam heard the shower again; he figured that meant that Dean was using another tab, and he hoped his older brother had thought to take another dose of the medications, as well. This time, no matter how bad or sluggish he felt, though, Dean seemed not to be able to wait to see John again, because he was only in the bathroom for twenty minutes before he emerged, wearing only his black sleep pants. John hadn't moved at all during that time, but when Dean appeared, the older man rose and turned down the bed for his firstborn, helping Dean to settle in before turning off the television with the remote and growling at Sam to go to bed. Sam found himself obeying without thought, climbing under the covers, tamping down disappointment when John didn't come to check on him and tell him goodnight. In the quiet of the darkening room, Sam heard Dean softly ask John to stay, and John told him that had been his plan. Giving Dean all the space to move around and get comfortable in the bed, John pulled up one of the chairs and parked himself near his elder son, watching over him as both boys dropped off to sleep with uncommon speed, before the sky outside was even fully dark.

_The familiar rumble of the Impala's engine was comforting; Sam tried to figure out where they were, but all he could see on both sides of the trafficless road were trees, their deep green leaves and needles giving no real clue about their location. Even though it had only been a few weeks since he'd had to ride back there after a... discussion with Dean, Sam had forgotten how lumpy the backseat was. He wasn't sure why he was in the back, especially since he was sitting just fine, but he figured that Dean must have gotten so irritated with him that he'd banished his younger brother to the back for awhile._

_He could see Dean in the driver's seat as they moved down the seemingly endless road. For awhile, all was quiet, the two of them simply travelling, though Sam didn't know their destination, and for some reason, that bothered him. The silence bothered him more, though, the air too still and too musty and too lacking in any kind of blaring rock music._

_Finally, he saw something in the middle of the road, something that didn't move as they approached. By the time he identified the figure, Dean was swearing and slamming on the brakes._

_John waited for the car to stop, then calmly walked around and got into the passenger seat. He waved his hand, and Dean started driving again, slowly, and Sam could see the tension in his brother's right arm and hand. They seemed to go for miles this way, through unrelieved foliage on a well-kept but abandoned road._

_"Don't worry about where we're going." John's voice, quiet and conversational, was startling nonetheless. "It doesn't matter where we are." And once spoken, his words seemed as true as anything Sam had ever heard._

_"I put us in the car, on the road, because that has defined our lives, your lives--always going somewhere but nowhere, always starting from nowhere and somewhere, always leading back to one of us. I want you both to remember this: it's always going to lead back to one of us, to one of you."_

_John was quiet for a moment before murmuring to Dean to stop the car. Dean obeyed without question, his movements almost mechanical; when the engine had fallen silent, Dean turned his head to look at John, who responded by turning in his seat to face Dean. Sam quickly realized that John's next words were meant just for Dean._

_"I have some things to say to you, things that belong right here, between us. There are things that I didn't tell you before I left you, things you should have known, things you should know without my having to tell you, but it seems that I'm going to have to break it down for you."_

_John's eyes drilled into Dean's. "Sam was right, Dean. You always were the best thing in my life; you were always the best part of me. I would have done anything to keep you safe; as it turns out, I pretty much did. I need you to forget all this nonsense about guilt over how and why I died; it was the right choice, and that's all there is to it. You are my son, you are my legacy, and your future is too important to waste on pointless feelings. Do I make myself clear?"_

_Dean hesitated for a moment, his eyes shining with tears, but when John repeated his question more forcefully and his right hand travelled down to a belt they hadn't noticed before, Dean nodded, seemingly in awe at the magnitude of those words, in that voice, already beginning to change the way he saw his present and future._

_After a pause, John turned to face Sam. For the first time, their eyes met--and Sam stopped breathing. His blood seemed at once to boil and to freeze in his veins, his pores and the roots of his hair prickling; he was suddenly hyper-aware of every fiber of his own body and of the figure before him, while the rest of the world ceased to exist. He couldn't move, he couldn't remember how to breathe, he couldn't blink. _

_"Now that I know I have your attention..." John leaned close to Sam. "Did you really think I'd have nothing to say to you, especially after your behavior since I left?" Sam tried to wince but couldn't; even then, the younger man couldn't move. Underneath the fear of what was happening to him physically, he felt his nerves quiver they way he had as a child whenever he'd been caught misbehaving; he wondered if he was about to be punished somehow._

_John leaned much closer, showing incredible balance, never actually touching Sam but coming close enough for Sam to feel John's surprisingly cold breath on his ear. Dean watched from the driver's seat with a sense of deja vu as John whispered something in Sam's ear; Dean couldn't hear what his father said, but he saw his brother's eyes widen, and when John was finished, Sam closed his eyes, all the color draining from his face as he slumped against the back of the seat. _

The cheese was back. Dean's first conscious thought was that he really wanted to know what was causing that smell, but then as he thought about it, he didn't really think it was worth the inconvenience of moving. He wasn't even sure it was worth the effort of waking up, but that ship seemed to have sailed.

He was considering what to do next when he remembered--Dad! Dean scrambled to turn over. He scanned the room--the now-clean walls, the cleared table, the collection of pill bottles and blister cards on the nightstand, Sam curled up in a tight ball with his back to most of the room... and no John. Hopeful, he looked toward the bathroom, but the door was open, the light off. The room was still.

Dean pulled himself out of bed, looking for the note he knew his father had to have left, but there was none. The Impala was parked just as Sam had left it the day before, the early morning light giving the car a copperish aura. Suddenly worried, Dean started to pace, rocking on the balls of his feet each time he stopped.

The stress of not knowing what had happened was aggravating his chest congestion, making it painful and difficult to breathe well. He was a little surprised that Sam, normally a relatively light sleeper, hadn't even stirred yet, but Dean simply shrugged and went back to pacing. The more he thought about it, the more his steps slowed, faltered; John wasn't there and wasn't coming back. He might have been there the day before, and he was certainly in Dean's dream, but he wasn't there anymore. Apparently, those few precious hours, more than they could have expected or hoped for, were all that they were going to get. Finding himself wheezing and blinking back hot tears, Dean growled at himself and went to take another vapor-enhanced shower with his meds.

When he emerged nearly 45 minutes later, toweling his hair to keep his hands busy, he noticed that the other bed was empty and made. His brother's belongings were nowhere to be seen. Something uncomfortably close to panic spiked in Dean's chest just then, as he considered the possibility that Sam had vanished from his world and he was truly alone, but a quick walk to the window to check on the car calmed his nerves--Sam was sitting in the passenger seat, leaning back, eyes closed, left arm up so that the back of his wrist rested across his forehead. Dean thought it was a little weird that Sam didn't seem eager to drive, but Dean could definitely handle that. He finished gathering his things and checking the room for forgotten bits, then went out and dumped his stuff in the car. He thought that Sam might have gone back to sleep where he sat because the younger man didn't even twitch.

After walking to the office to settle the bill, Dean returned and took his place behind the wheel, sending his brother a concerned glance. He could see Sam's chest rising and falling, though maybe not as profoundly as he would have liked, so he elected to leave him alone. Dean found a stop-n-rob that sold maps and boxes of miniature donuts, and he got a paper from a stand outside the store, flipping through to find their next job lead. Dean saved a couple of powdered donuts and a cold orange juice, just in case his brother woke hungry, but he was kind of enjoying the peace and quiet, though he knew that soon the novelty would wear off and be replaced by creepiness.

An hour and a half down the road, aiming across Texas toward the woods outside of Ruidoso, New Mexico, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard, "You're gonna have to push it on this hill." Dean glanced over at his brother, heart pounding, to see that Sam hadn't moved and his eyes were still closed, but apparently he was awake and aware of his surroundings. Dean looked up at Ranger Hill looming ahead and tried to cover his startlement by snorting and saying it was child's play.

A minute later, surrounded by big rigs, Dean had to admit that Sam had pegged it--the Impala was struggling not to roll backward, which Dean was sure the driver of the red Kenworth behind him would not appreciate, if, that is, he or she even noticed the impact. Dean shook his head and pushed his baby, coaxing just a little more power out of her, relieved when he finally crested the hill, and then started looking for someplace to stop and let her cool. A few miles down the road, he and the big rigs found a Love's and made a mass exit from the highway. Dean found a parking spot and turned, a multitude of questions on the tip of his tongue, only to see his brother shrugging out of his seatbelt and exiting the car. Dean sighed and sat there, trying to soothe the Impala and waiting.

Sam emerged a few minutes later, hands empty, and resumed his place in the car without a word. Dean noticed that his younger brother kept his head down until he leaned back and closed his eyes, faint lines of pain etched in his face.

"Hey, dude, you okay?" Dean nudged Sam and got no response. "Sammy, come on. Are you okay?" Still no response. "Would you talk to me already? Look, I know the last couple of days have been really... weird, and it s-cks that he left again, but we've still got each other, right?"

Sam turned his face away from Dean then, but Dean had a sudden feeling. Sam wasn't acting angry or petulant; he just seemed to be in a lot of pain and doing some serious avoiding. Dean's mind flashed back to his dream, and as crazy as it sounded, he began to wonder...

"Sam," he said quietly, "what did he say to you?"

At first, when Sam held his silence, Dean thought that he must be going crazy, that they couldn't have shared a dream. He sighed and started the car, pulling out and navigating back onto I-20.

"It doesn't matter."

Dean gripped the wheel and tried to keep from swerving. "Dude, you are seriously getting off on this startling the c--- outta me thing today, aren't you?" Dean kept driving, growing more uncomfortable with the silence that permeated the car. "So it wasn't just me--you dreamed it, too?"

Sam sighed a little, never opening his eyes. "It wasn't a dream. Dreams are formed by your subconscious, pieced together from what you already know to be true or to be false, with a little fantasy thrown in to mix up the two. The... the things he said..." Sam trailed off and seemed to fold in on himself just a little.

"So what'd he say to you, when he whispered in your ear?" Sam didn't reply. "Oh, come on, Sam, I know it scked when he left me with a secret I had to keep from you; let's not go there this time. Come on, you can tell me--what did he say to you? It's obviously getting to you, so why don't you just tell me, and we can, you know, deal with it together."

"Dean, it doesn't matter. Just drive."

And long before Sam finally spoke again, to say that he wasn't hungry and wanted nothing from the all-night diner on the outskirts of Ruidoso, somehow Dean knew that something in his brother had changed--not just his attitude, or his behavior, but something in him--and Dean was beginning to wonder what had happened to the old Sam, and who was sitting next to him now.

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End file.
